This was, without a doubt, the worst idea Stiles has had in a very long time. He should know better, really. He should know that when he makes plans, the whole universe laughs . And when the universe, or at least, the Beacon Hills shaped little corner of it, laughs, nothing good comes of it.
But, Stiles was over the moon (ha!) excited, and so very nervous, because it's not everyday that Derek Hale agrees to go on a date with you, and he had to plan, because otherwise he was going to freak out.
So, he planned a picnic. And he planned the perfect outfit. And he planned a casually romantic playlist, and a pretty decent bottle of wine, and a lovely little clearing in the Preserve where they could spread the picnic blanket out and feed each other fancy tapas that Stiles painstakingly put together.
And of course, the night before the big date, sometime after Stiles falls into a fitful sleep, there's a power surge in his building and his alarm clock fails to wake him. Luckily, his nerves do the honors, and he still has time to shower before he leaves. Unfortunately, he finds he's all but out of werewolf friendly soap and only has enough shampoo for a half added assed wash.
He takes a moment to berate himself for being so focused on the menu that he forgot about the rest of the things he needed from the store, but the thought of the food and the blinking red numbers on his clock have him rushing through the rest of his ablutions to check that the fridge is still keeping all his carefully prepared picnic treats at the proper temperature.
After scrambling into his carefully assembled outfit and giving his hair into a reasonably tame style, he all but rubs to his small but functional kitchen, his socked feet slipping slightly on the faux marble tile. He finds the fridge is up and running, and the food all looks and smells delicious, so Stiles takes a relieved breath before taking the stacks of plastic containers out of the fridge and packing them in the picnic basket that his parents once used for their early dates.
He leaves earlier than necessary, but everything's going so well , his plan is on track to succeed, and he can't wait to get to the part where he and Derek are together , so early is pretty great, actually.
He's about two miles from Derek's when the universe starts laughing at him.
His Jeep stalls and he cannot get it to restart. He does however, manage to get a grease stain on his sleeve, which makes him want to cry.
But. Derek is waiting for him, and he was early, so he can walk the last couple of miles, no problem. New plan.
He loops the picnic basket over his arm, makes sure the blanket is securely attached to the side, locks the car up with the customary ‘flag made from some random garbage in my trunk that signifies the car is broken down’ tucked in the door, and heads toward Derek's.
He calls a tow on the way, makes arrangements, and hums happily to himself as he walks. Again, about halfway there, the universe chuckles.
A passing car full of loud teenagers kicks up a cloud of dirt and mud, splattering debris along the entire left leg of his dark pants. He turns abruptly to shout obscenities at them and the quick movement cracks one of the handles I the picnic basket, sending containers of food and a spray of loose grapes flying out of the basket and landing in a sad still life on the road.
Stiles is nothing if not resourceful, so with emotion rising on his throat and stinging his eyes, he gathers the scattered containers and the broken picnic basket in the center of the blanket, wraps it up in a bundle, and throws the thing over his shoulder, he tries not to think about how he looks like a sad clown hobo from the 1940s, his worldly (or at least, dately) possessions in an incongruously bright sack on his shoulder.
After another half mile or so, his mood is souring, he’s so close to Derek’s and there’s a cold wind starting to rattle the trees and cut through the cotton of his button down shirt. The sky is starting to darken, clouds moving in rapidly, grey and obviously heavy with rain, and Stiles is fighting back a scream of frustration as Beacon Hills laughs at the plans of Stiles Stilinski.
He checks the time on his phone, realizes he’s officially late, and before he can bring up Derek’s number to explain he drops the phone, the battery skittering across the packed dirt and out of sight.
By the time he’s standing in front of Derek’s house, twenty minutes late and absolutely certain this is the worst first date in the history of first dates, and it hasn’t even started yet. About ten yards from the front door, Stiles slumps down into a crouch, his bundled up picnic plopped defeatedly next to him, he cradles his head in both hands and sighs, long and low. As he tries to gather himself, he feels the first drops of rain and is surprised that it isn’t tears falling on his wrists.
He looks up at the sound of a door closing, his heart skipping several beats as he sees Derek moving toward him with a questioning smile on his beautiful face.
“Stiles?” comes at the same time as “I’m so sorry,” and Derek huffs a small laugh as he closes the distance between them and moves to stand in front of Stiles, an eyebrow raised at the tied up blanket as he smiles at Stiles.
“I was just coming to look for you, I figured something happened?”
Stiles laughs humorlessly, “Yeah, you could say that. I just, I had everything planned, and then the power, and my car just-” Derek cuts of his rambling apology with a quick press of warm lips to Stiles’ own, and the contrast of the soft heat that Derek radiates against Stiles’ wind and rain chilled body makes him shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
They part, Derek’s fingertips resting lightly on Stiles jaw, and Stiles chases after the kiss, earning him a smile. “-and the rain,” Stiles finishes.
Derek pulls Stiles closer with a warm palm on the small of his back, “What rain,” he asks, fitting their mouths together, lips catching and dragging deliciously as Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s neck, their bodies pressed together from chest to hip. Derek catches Stiles’ bottom lip and sucks gently, Stiles gasps and Derek uses the opportunity to lick into his mouth, their moans pushed into one another’s mouths. As Stiles tilts his head to deepen the kiss, the shift sends a heavy raindrop careening down the side of his neck, making him aware of the steady but not heavy rainfall that is quickly soaking them both.
The slither of raindrops down his collar and the dampness gathering at his temple barely registers as Derek’s hand on his back digs into the muscle there, pressing their hips together, his hand on Stiles’ face caressing and cradling, suffusing Stiles with warmth and making something fluttery settle in his stomach.
A crack of thunder startles them apart, and they stare at one another for a moment, Stiles taking in the way raindrops cling to Derek’s lashes, Derek appreciating the way Stiles’ lips look, kiss swollen and soft. “Is that a picnic.” Derek asks, and Stiles laughs, warm and genuine.
“It was about a half hour ago, but I’m not so sure now,” he says, full of amusement and self deprecation.
Derek pulls his hands away and bends to pick up the now water logged bundle and reaches for Stiles’ hand, “C’mon, let’s go eat.” The picnic survived remarkably well, and they eat it on the floor of Derek’s living room, wrapped in warm blankets and not much else, Stiles’ music playing on Derek’s speakers and the added soundtrack of their clothes tumbling in the dryer providing an absolutely perfect first date soundtrack.